Discomfort
by JantoJones
Summary: Illya and Mr Waverly spend some time together.


The hunting cabin, due to it being out of season, was currently unused. The furniture was limited to a small table with two chairs, a small stove and a single cot. There was the luxury of cold running water, and in the cabinet there were a few provisions. Illya went back outside and called to the man with him.

"It is clear Sir."

As soon as Mr Waverly was inside, the Russian made a quick check of the surrounding area, and then joined his boss. The older man had settled himself on one the chairs.

"We should be fine for now," the agent told the Chief. "But they're bound to discover the wreck and track us down."

A little while earlier, Illya had been driving Mr Waverly to a secret meeting in the middle of nowhere. Unfortunately, they'd soon discovered it was far from secret after picking up a tail. Assuming correctly that is was THRUSH, Illya simply accelerated. He managed to shake them off and switched to a contingency route only he was privy to. What he couldn't have known was that there had been a huge storm the previous evening and it had brought down a large tree. Illya didn't see it until it was too late. He'd managed to slow down a fair bit, but still couldn't prevent the crash.

"You may as well make yourself comfortable Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly told him. "According to dispatch, we have a couple of hours to wait for the helicopter."

Illya had been in many uncomfortable situations, but being stuck in a small cabin with Mr Waverly ranked fairly high on the discomfort scale. Added to that, he had a blinding headache thanks to smacking his head off the windshield, and aching ribs from being forced against the steering column.

"Would you like a coffee Sir?" He asked the older man. "I'm afraid there doesn't seem to be any tea."

"Please sit down before you fall down Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly suggested, firmly but gently. "You're obviously hurt, and I think I can manage to brew coffee."

Illya's discomfort level ratcheted up a few more notches. From childhood, he'd been taught to respect and serve authority. Since leaving Russia, Illya had sometimes struggled with the idea of a superior doing something he should be doing; especially something menial like making coffee. He did have to admit to himself though, that his vision was swimming and he really didn't feel too well. Illya lowered himself onto one of the chairs and closed his eyes momentarily.

When he opened them again, he was looking up from the floor at Mr Waverly; who was kneeling beside him.

"Sir?"

"I would suggest you lie down on the cot Mr Kuryakin," Waverly said with a slight chuckle, pulling himself up from the floor. "I imagine it's infinitely more comfortable."

He held his hand out to aid the younger man up and guided him to the cot. Illya couldn't help but feel like he was being put to bed by his boss. Napoleon was going to have a field day when he found out.

"Try not to go to sleep young man," Mr Waverly advised.

Easier said than done, Illya thought to himself.

"How is Mrs Waverly Sir?" He asked, in a desperate attempt lower the awkwardness of the situation.

"She's very well, thank you, Mr Kuryakin," the Old Man replied affably, as he returned to making the coffee. "She's looking forward to becoming a grandmother again."

"Oh? I didn't know Sir. Congratulations."

The two men spent the next thirty minutes chatting about Mr Waverly's expanding family. His daughter was due to have her third child in a couple of months. That would make a total of five grandchildren for the Mr and Mrs Waverly. Illya found that he was enjoying the conversation, even though it was a little bitter/sweet for him. He could only remember one of his grandparents; his Babushka on his Mama's side. She had been a caring and tough lady, but a harsh Russian winter had taken her when Illya was still very young. He hoped, one day, to have a family of his own. He dreamt of having a son, whom he would name Nikolai, after his own father. A daughter would also be nice. He would name her Irina, for his Babushka. However, Illya knew that he would be unlikely to live long enough to have children, in his line of work.

Illya sat up suddenly, cutting Mr Waverly off mid-flow. His hand had automatically gone to his weapon, which informed the other man that the Russian had obviously sensed something.

"What is it Mr Kuryakin?"

"Someone is outside Sir."

Mr Waverly reached for his own gun and the two men stood, aiming at the door. Neither of them expected the smoke grenade to come smashing through the window; which forced them to exit the cabin. Pressing against the wall, each man edged along it, in opposite directions. Getting to the corner, Mr Waverly decided not to risk peering around; opting instead to step straight out. He was confronted by a single THRUSH agent, whom he dispatched with practiced ease.

Illya wasn't so lucky. He did exactly the same as his boss, but the sudden movement caused his head to spin and his vision to blur. It gave the THRUSH guy the opportunity to shoot first. The Russian had just enough of his wits about him to try and get out of the way. The bullet grazed his upper right arm, causing him to let go of his weapon. Dropping down to retrieve it saved him from his attacker's second shot. Illya snatched up his gun and shot the THRUSH agent clean between the eyes. Sensing movement behind him, Illya span round and fired. Luckily, his shot went wide, meaning he managed not to kill Mr Waverly.

"S..sorry S..sir," he stuttered.

Waverly waved his apology away. "Not to worry Mr Kuryakin, perfectly understandable."

"Thank you Sir," Illya acknowledged. "Would you please excuse me?"

His exertions caught up with him, and he gracefully fell to the ground. Illya was quite unconscious.

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMF

Illya returned to land of the living three days later, in the all too familiar surroundings of medical.

"I'm going to move my apartment in here," he groaned. "I spend more time here than there."

"As if the staff here would put up with you on a permanent basis," Napoleon Solo replied, from the recently acquired, and wonderfully comfortable, white armchair. "How are you feeling?"

"I am fine," Illya replied with his stock answer.

"For once, you're right," his partner agreed. "Just a slight concussion, a couple of bruised ribs and a little gunshot graze. For you, that's practically uninjured. Are you sure you're ok? You seem a bit down."

"I was supposed to get Mr Waverly safely to his meeting," the Russian began. "Instead, I crashed the car, got shot, and almost shot the Chief of U.N.C.L.E. New York. Not exactly a successful mission."

"Not entirely successful Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly said, as he entered the room; accepting the chair Napoleon vacated for him. "However, you cannot blame yourself for any of it. _You_ did not tell THRUSH of the original route, you couldn't have known there was an obstacle blocking your contingency route, and you didn't actually _mean_ to shoot me. You can rest assured, you did your job and you did it well."

"Thank you Sir."

Illya smiled and drifted back to sleep. Napoleon would just have to wait until later to give him a ribbing about being put to bed by his boss.

The End.


End file.
